Europa's Waltz
by Dead Account Number Something
Summary: 1815-1867. The war is over, and the lands have been rearranged and restored. But certain ideas and thoughts simply can't be suppressed, and no matter how hard they try to ignore it, it will always be there. Always growing, always waiting. A creature named Madness. Historical, slightly dark.
1. I - The Long Road Home

**EUROPA'S WALTZ**

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**Hello, and welcome to something that I hope will be my biggest project up to date! (I've been planning ideas for something like this for a year now!)**

**_Europa's Waltz_, as the summary says, is a historical fic, and will be slightly darker than the Hetalia we are used to. Some things, in fact, will be different – theories will be agreed with and disagreed with, headcanons interwoven with what we know and don't know, and some parts may even disagree with canon.**

**This fic will not be a romance-based fic. There will, however, be bonds of friendship, family and absolute hate. There will be accusations of romance, and I'm sure you know about some alliances and unions being personified as marriages – but not all marriages are out of love… It's actually up to you, the reader, to decide on whether there's real love here or not.**

**On a related note, the Chibitalia storyline, as you may know, is different in the published manga and the anime/webcomic. This fic will not really swing either way, and I'll probably keep it neutral. Either way, HRE x Chibitalia will NOT be a _present-time_ pairing in this story (due to various reasons). Sorry!**

**Greatly inspired by Pink Floyd's _Dark Side of the Moon_ album – have a listen sometime. Each chapter's lyrics are all from it.**

**I own nothing, especially not the music!**

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_**Title:** Europa's Waltz  
**Genre:** Historical, hurt/comfort, drama, angst. Dark!  
**Characters:** Austria, North Italy, Hungary, Germany, others._

_**Rating:** T, for disturbing content and violence, some language (in general; specific warnings will be given before each chapter)  
**Summary:** The Austrian Empire, 1815-1867. "What's happening to us? What's happening to our house?"_

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**[Minor edits made 17/11/12 - corrected spelling of names]**

**Warnings for this chapter – none, the worst of it's the lyrics**

**Erzsébet = Hungary's name, actual Hungarian version**

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**Chapter One – The Long Road Home**

The skies were white that day.

A white sky could, of course, only mean cloudy days; full of blankness and empty coldness in the promised warmth of day. It shrouded the sun, silenced the birds, and froze the optimistic souls who spent their days hoping for sunshine, replacing it instead with a blank, white canvas that could not be scratched by any medium.

There was no fog, but the white did indeed provide a little camouflage for those who happened to be walking on that day, out in the plains of Lombardy – but the silence in the isolated fields could actually do little to mask their soft, yet strong and agile footsteps – the only sound heard as the two figures strode through the landscape.

Though they were tired, and their faces were blushed with the cold, neither was showing signs of physical exhaustion, despite the terrible distances, and that simply confirmed that neither of the two were fully human - but they were not beast-kind either in appearance.

The taller – a dark-haired man with metal-framed eyeglasses and the stance of a gentleman – was the leader.

His name was Roderich, surname of Edelstein – and in the dominance of his stride, his wisdom and experience (shocking, for a man no older than twenty-five in looks) could definitely be seen in an instant. The name, on the other hand, bore a mystery – for nobody could quite put a finger on whether Roderich had ever had a mother or a father – and Roderich himself had never spoken of having family to anybody. Suspicions, had, though, persisted.

Perhaps, through his long and tumultuous life, he'd just needed a change of identity. Maybe he'd just picked it at random. Maybe there had been a reason.

_Maybe. _But Roderich was a perceptive man.

He'd heard the coughing of the red-throated birds in the trees, and the leaves had been stiff all day, like soundless statues in a great glass room without a wind. There had been little noise compared to where he had been in those bloody last few days, and somewhere deep down, he was rather relieved. There was nothing to fear, besides – who would dare attack him, alone and an enigma in the blend of the sky?

The flames were dead and dying. The swishing and clashing of blades was fading; the gunshots and bangs were beginning to leave his ears and quit their pounding of his ear-drums.

With a look down – partly because he was tired and his shoulders were on the verge of collapse, but mostly to check if that stain he'd tried to wash out with his saliva had gone – he let loose a disappointed sigh. White, he knew, was a beautiful colour; a colour of purity and grace and the fearsome snowstorms that ravaged the Alpine mountaintops of his home, and who could forget the sweet and blooming edelweiss? – but still, he thought (and spat as he did, this time onto the ground), of the idleness of _white_.

He knew he'd never confuse himself for a Frenchman or Russian in white, but he could be confused for a rascal with the state of it. Looping a loose thread around his finger like a ring, he gave the obvious mud on his sleeve a dirty stare.

It wasn't the only stain, but it was visible enough. He sighed. Already, frustration was beginning to build at the though of all the work he'd have to do to have it restored.

Of all the things, throwing anything away was _not_ a good thing in his opinion.

In his weary and downtrodden mind and in the plains of his plane of thought, he could never have something destroyed – unless it had, of course, destroyed itself already. He knew that if that rule was disobeyed, he would have to carry the weight of the burden on his shoulders for, perhaps, a lifetime; his only salvation being the fading of the guilt of his own destruction.

Roderich, in simple terms, did not like _destruction_.

Coughing with tiredness and the irony of the surroundings (for the fields around him were just a fragment of a dead and dying empire) he ignored the rusty pain that echoed in his tired legs and carried on past the signs of everything; the signs of the past.

"Are you cold?" the voice of his companion rang out. Roderich, startled a little, stopped and turned around to face her – who froze in response, just as unprepared as he had been a moment ago.

Had anyone but Roderich seen the companion, there would have most certainly been controversy. Shock and horror, too – for when did women wear soldiers' uniforms? When had they been allowed to stride so freely alongside the men – to stain their clothing with the blood of the wounded and the dead? And, above all, who was this crazy woman – strong enough, above all, to brave the horrors of war, when there was the comfort of home and food and children to look after?

Erzsébet, however, was not crazy. She was not human, simply, just as Roderich himself was – and he bore no prejudice towards her for that very reason. He'd known her for a long time, besides, and he still bore the hidden marks of her days as Europe's worst nightmare. She, on the other hand, cared little for that.

Her hair was long and brown and spilled down her shoulders, uncaring of what anyone may say about a woman at war, and her eyes still glistened green despite the white that surrounded her. An unruly, still-red scratch marked the side of her face, but she paid it no attention.

"I know it's supposed to be springtime, and in these parts, no less…" She spoke with a weary tone, her voice a little constricted by the beginnings of a cold. Receiving no answer from the other, she faltered, feeling as if her words had been a mistake. "…I'm sorry, please ignore me."

Roderich did not continue on; instead, he shook his head in response. "It is fine. Thank you for asking, though." He then coughed twice. "It is not much longer."

Sighing, Erzsébet looked past his face and beyond, into the distance, as if looking for the place the man – her master, she thought with some disgust – was describing. She knew little of these parts, but what else could she do but follow? He probably wasn't used to the hills and the winding trail of the river that veined through these parts either – but it had been, in theory, _his_ domain for a long time now.

Erzsébet, in theory, was also his domain. Softly growling in anger under her breath, she refused to ever say it out loud.

_Free me._

But she was under him, and his Emperor – as he had emerged from the wreckage of a not-quite-an-empire, as a new dominant leader – was her own country's King. She felt ashamed of having ever stooped low enough – _so low, so low,_ that voice whispered inside her – but nothing could be done here, not now. This was not her land, not at all.

This was another piece of a broken-up jigsaw. As she walked, she walked with a sense of dread; she was walking through a broken land; one that had been ripped from Roderich's Empire, then added to another.

And that other empire? Crumbled.

"Come on. We_ are_ on the Path, but we do still need time."

That was true. Their kind – neither human nor monster – had a sense for such roads. Paths, as they were, wound through hills and plains, mountains and even deserts; unseen and impassable by any other creature than _them. _Humans, from many experiences past, did not even see Paths. Their eyes would only see Erzsébet and Roderich's kind slip between the rocks or the trees or the narrow alleys, only to find them as vanished as dust.

That was the way they were; the way their kind was. Always tricking humanity, playing with minds, toying with hearts on occasion, but remaining a mystery for the long centuries that were often tied with their immortal lives.

Their lives, in turn, were bound to the life of the land and the souls of the people dwelling there; they felt and heard the rustle of the wind a hundred miles away and the struggles of men at war – the anger of bolting guns – and bound they were, like two sides of an eternal coin.

They were no humans. They were _Nationkind. _He was Austria, and she bore the true name of Hungary.

_And every nation shall bear a human vessel, and with the privilege and mask of humanity a human soul should bear the nation's weight…_

Both could remember the words spoken years ago, at a small confluence of paths, where some of their immortal kind had met and made the first pact that defined their laws and ways. Many changes, they knew, had happened since then – the factories had risen and the smoke had clouded the skies – but there were, with the memories of long-gone wars and prosperities, some things that could not be forgotten.

It had been the nation inside that had brought them to these hills and the surrounding mountain-land – but not even the wisdom and great ages of Austria could prevent Roderich getting lost in his own labyrinth of a home. _Humanity…_

Erzsébet, with a cough in her throat, nodded back at Roderich. Ignoring anything that bound him, to humanity or anything else, his feet began the regular rhythm again, walking and traversing the plains, with not a spark of glory or happiness at the whole ordeal. She walked behind, a new, regained strength in her legs, with obedience and a firm expression, as the two had walked and walked for hours – days, days from the very beginning.

The road wound on beyond.

* * *

The white sky had, of course, been seen by more than the two walkers in the Lombard plains. There were, and not only in Milan but also in its great surroundings, more than two million, and while the majority did look outside, combined, they would never have seen it all from beginning to end, or at least from border to border.

Feliciano, though, didn't need to ask anyone what they had seen, because he knew it all anyway.

He wasn't bored of the monochrome, though – though others would certainly find it strange if they were just walking by, off in the countryside, in the middle of northern nowhere, and saw a teenage boy with hair the colour of coffee (barely splashed with milk) sitting on what had once been a wall; a fence, even. Now, little was left of it, and he wriggled around on top of the remainders in discomfort.

The stones were uneven, but thankfully not jagged enough to hurt.

Ashes blew through the air, and he remembered the fire of the years before – years that would shock anyone who did not know his name and true age. He had lost track of the latter, simply having woken up one day and not knowing anything but the grass and the trees and the trickle of a nearby stream; the breeze making the surrounding green stand on end like the fur of an angered animal. He remembered the soft, almost soundless resonance of lupine footsteps in the untamed land – sharp eyes in the distance that pierced the unknown…

Too long ago, no. That was far too long ago. No, the flames were not far back; eighteen years ago, in fact, when the fanfares had rang out and the hand was offered out.

The hand belonged to a man who he had not seen for a year.

François was gone. Not dead, but gone. He knew that. He'd promised – I'll return, Feliciano, don't be scared – and now it was too late. Another fire had started in the ashes of the first. A cinder must have remained, and now he was breathing in that cinder's children.

Around him, though, was no smoke. The smoke burnt elsewhere, somewhere a little less significant than here – in other words, somewhere not on any map. A small fire? A blaze? He didn't know, but his lungs felt smoked out. It was the feeling, above all. The feeling that _this, _what had been there before,was all over.

Venice. He missed Venice, and Milan, though he was in its surroundings, in Lombardy, and everything was still there - _but gone._

There had once been a house behind the wall. It had been there, on the edge of the river, as tall as a tree and as wide as a great bridge; he had not thought of it, but François had. He – of all the people, not even a local – had brought him here, and there he'd lived, under the thumb of François, for these eighteen years. Seventeen, officially.

_Was it really over?_

Had anyone been there with him, they wouldn't have even believed he was alive seventeen years ago, let alone the possibility of over one thousand. He wasn't tall, nor was he strong or well-muscled. Feliciano was a plain-looking thing; wind-tousled hair that half-curled and half-didn't, wide eyes like that of a child much his junior and little strength left within now, as he sat on the wall and pondered the nothingness of life – perhaps, a boy of thirteen, no older.

His throat felt congested; he coughed to try and loosen the hold. His voice had matured a little, enough for him not to be confused for a female, but still keeping a tinge of its childish ring; it was there to stay for at least a little longer.

How long? _It didn't matter. _He sighed. The grass whistled on with him -

Raising his head in a quick bout of realisation – he hadn't felt anything before, too lost in whiteness? – that something – somebody – was approaching, he gasped in the silence. The wind had calmed, yet the discomfort remained all over. _Who is it? Who? Where – why?_

Walking – _coming, coming here, here! Somebody, somebody!_

The echo sang out inside, alerting Feliciano like a cockerel in the emergence of the sun. He felt some sort of pressure building inside, pushing down. A voice, a warning – he'd heard it all before, but now… Now, it felt threatening and weird and shaded, as if a rain cloud was coming to block out his only source of light; the unknown inner feeling resonating - like the thump of a rabbit's heartbeat - grass, leaves, twig in the grass, flower not yet bloomed - as it sprang through the hills, frenzied, its muscles flexing and tensing in a violent sprint, as it looked and _bang _–

"Feliciano!"

The noise faded in an instant. The thumping and buzzing was gone, but that odd drop of sweat that had emerged in the instant still itched on his brow. Moving his head so he could see the source of the shout, he tried to shake out the sensation he'd felt for a moment.

His eyes did not widen, for they were already as wide as the fleeting animal in his imagination – it was imagined, wasn't it? – at the sight. He recognised the figures cresting the hill, and the flap of an white army coat burnt away all doubts. Behind it, another – his heart twisted for a second as he thought of the friend he'd left behind, and she was there again. Shame began to sear, scraping against his cheeks and painting them a redder shade.

The figures picked up their pace, having seen the object of the hunt, the longer-haired sprinting forward, regardless of the taller's disappointed frown. "Feli – Feli, you're there! We finally found you!"

Pushing off the stone, he shrugged his shoulders, face down, as he made the choice to leap off. No more than a metre high, the wall felt like a cathedral pinnacle; like descending down without a hope. He sighed, but the running woman did not see it. Instead, she stopped, now only strides away, in silence, now watching the boy. Footsteps began to sound from behind, but he knew too well who was coming to get them both.

Stopping, Roderich sighed. "At least we found him," he mumbled, looking away into the distance before his eyes caught the actual ruin. "And not too late either."

Feliciano had no idea what the last phrase had meant, but knew it concerned him somehow. He didn't speak, but Roderich didn't care for emptiness. "Never mind this," he ordered, sharply and with an air of confidence, chest out and back perfectly straight. "Eliza, take him home."

Somehow, the word 'home' did not seem to bring up thoughts of warm fireplaces and silken sheets in Feliciano's mind. Looking at the brown-haired woman next to him, he saw her flinch a little at his alteration of her name. He remembered the many times that name had been used, and every time seemed to make her the slightest bit uncomfortable.

"I have further business to deal with – and don't try to escape." Roderich's voice pierced the unknown of the woman.

No words were said; all she did was sigh, and it made Feliciano flinch. Her smile had faded, quicker than the flap of a crow's wings, and everything was washed out once again. His own face fell at the sight, but his whole body jerked in surprise – and shock - the second her hand took his wrist.

The feeling was not cruel, nor comfortable – only a lack of emotion and the cold of the surroundings; the cold of steel and peach-blushed hands. Refusing to look up, she mumbled a quiet "Come on," and almost tugged at Feliciano's sleeve, pulling him along and urging him on without a further word. With one last look back, a small drop of wetness about to forge itself at the corner of one eye, he followed, low as a dog in disappointment. Roderich said nothing more.

* * *

By nightfall, however, the sky had changed and transformed. Just as the ugliest of caterpillars becomes the brightest colour-exploded butterfly, the evening had brought with it a breeze to chase away at least some of the clouds; and thus, Roderich was treated to a masterpiece of stars upon the blue and darkened sky.

Clustered and dotted as random as the oddities of life, they had bore resemblance to a sea of French knots upon a silken cloth, and all night, under the watching stare of the moon, he had tossed and turned in the lodgings he had been kindly given by a man and his wife in their stone-walled house just outside of a larger town – and the hospitality was great for those of such little power and money. The fault was Roderich himself – he longed for the softness and the luxury of _home; _the home he knew.

Leaving a generous amount of gold on the table, he'd left wordlessly, after the awakening of his hosts, but as quickly and as unnoticeably as a gust of springtime wind. Their smiles – he felt those now, as he proceeded on – left the surprise and shock far forgotten and behind.

The border was behind. Everything was behind. Vienna – his beloved land – was behind, but he knew he'd soon return. He could have gone home and confirmed that Erzsébet had done the deed and returned the escapee home, but there was simply no purpose in wasting time. He couldn't stop for longer than he needed to; and besides, what if she had let him escape? What if she had escaped herself? She'd be caught, and she knew what would happen anyway – besides, the time she'd spent by his side in the search before would surely have made her forget the meaning of the word 'escape'.

And even so, who was to say that once Erzsébet had left Roderich, Hungary would break from Austria? The ways of Nationkind confused him, even to this day, with every ounce of knowledge held. Sometimes, their actions would affect the lands and people. At other times, their moods could swing whichever way – and that could be affected by the nation of their ties. No mystic could tell.

He knew, though. _Nothing would happen. Simple_. The Army was strong enough. He'd make sure of that.

He sighed, finally reassured; he had been alone for almost two days, having spent the last two nights in the warm residences of whoever could spare something. Had he rested at Vienna, he would have been less tired, and now, he regretted not doing so.

But this was it, a brand new dawn. _Another dawn._ Golden light cresting the horizon and crowning the fields was a sight that refreshed his mind and relaxed the soul, no matter how many times he had seen the same sun rise in the same perfect way. Around it, the sky was orange, and it reminded him of honey and warm village bread.

Northern lands were truly just as bright as southern ones, no matter what was said by any other expert. He'd seen one too many identical sunrises, too many trees and too many grassblades drenched in dew – especially the latter, as the water soaked his boots. Though the water did not quite penetrate through to his feet, it still made him shiver with discomfort.

He couldn't quite feel his way around – or rather, Austria could not, for it wasn't its, or his territory – so instead, he crossed his fingers.

He could hear the fields rustling in a faint sort of breeze, and the golden colour was spreading out, sending faint warmth and fainter hope into his veins. His own lands were watching the sunrise, behind him, away from this place and its strangeness, despite being lit by the same sun.

He felt the resonance now; a faint sort of link, a connection, to something not far from this place with a name he did not know and cared even less for than anything, a soft breeze continuing to rustle his hair and the grass. Narrowing his eyes, he strode onwards, letting the mysterious gravity pull him; he knew this sort of feeling. It was the vibe of a magnet, the attraction of blue-tailed birds, the ebb and flow of the tides – the feeling that something, somebody, of his own sort was here, that the hunt was going to be a success. He felt that single one, and only one; he took a breath of relief. He was first to the chase.

Roderich knew little of this land, and even less of who could possibly have such a… spirit? He knew not what to call it, and perhaps Austria knew, but he had not been told the exact name. Was it not for the human mind to know?

So many things left unknown. So many nights of dissatisfaction, so many books so thoroughly read and re-read in pursuit of an answer! The pain of it all!

No, his skull was not about to crack in frustration – he had to follow it! This had to be something real, and he had to find it and see it and feel it!

Crack. _Austerlitz. _The last stand.

No. Something else?

_Maybe._

Austria was restless. Sweat formed at the back of his head. The trees continued to rustle with meaning as the silence called out. Roderich looked up.

It wasn't every day that he saw something like this.

In the lowest branches of a still-growing oak, amongst the tangles of bushes and an odd flower in the morning light, there sat a boy, wrapped in a ragged, old cloak the colour of moleskin and, from what he could see, short hair that resembled a sunbeam. He was looking away, and though the branches weren't much higher than Roderich's head, the boy seemed to emanate… what? Distance? Loneliness?

The aftermath of bloody Austerlitz sang back. The birds did not appear to have noticed the approaching man, but slowly, moments after Roderich's feet had come to a halt behind the boy and the tree, the child turned to face him.

Fair, he noted. Blue eyes. _And wasn't there another – _

"So you're the one that's of these lands, I suppose?" Roderich threw all other thoughts aside, trying to focus on the basics. Identity, knowledge, age and experience. The rest would come, anyway.

The boy jerked from his awkward position in the tree, wobbling, small hands trying to keep a grip on the bark. He didn't speak, instead giving Roderich a look of questioning, and a small stirring of realisation that yes, this man was something like him.

"Hmph." Roderich sighed, a little disappointed at the lack of answers. "I know the answer anyway. You should know yourself first, however. That's the first thing you need to know to get anywhere in this world."

Finally, what sounded like a voice came from the boy. "Who are you?"

The man ran a swift hand through his hair and 'hmph'd' once more. "I should be asking you that. Respect your seniors – don't tell me you haven't even learned that?" He then adjusted his sleeves once again, feeling a little colder than what he was comfortable with.

Looking down, the blue eyes blinked. "…I don't know."

"Did they not call you anything around here? I doubt you are the only speaking creature here." Perhaps, using 'human' would be a little alienating.

"I… I did have somebody." Well, there was an answer.

"Who, then?"

"Two people. A man and a woman." Now the boy was speaking more and more, and Roderich pinpointed his voice and manner. Of here, that he was sure of. "They lived here. In that house." Pointing forwards towards what seemed to be a small creatureless farm, he did not speak any more; until another prompt was sharply given.

"And, what did they call you?"

The child looked away, but Roderich glimpsed the emotion. "Ludwig. Their son was called Ludwig. They called me that too."

"No surname?"

Ludwig shook his head.

"And… this _Ludwig_ you speak of?"

"They said I looked like him. They said God took him."

Roderich's chest fell with relief. The agony of another Heinrich – another blue-eyed northern child with a destiny of nowhere – would have been impossible. But still, giving a living mystery the name of a dead little child was a little frightening – but how could have the humans known? They were not to blame. "And… are they-"

"They're gone too." There was a dry sort of emptiness in Ludwig's tone as he said the hard, bitter words. "They're together now, aren't they?" He brought the old, dark cloak closer to himself, as if wrapping himself in its old comfort and what must have been the scent of reassurance and home. Roderich felt terribly ill with an unwanted memory.

Though the older man – and the nation within – did not know the answers, he could only nod in the silence left by the breeze. A fly darted through his field of view, making him flinch and shaking his thoughts a little. _Maybe, then. Maybe. _He did not say anything, though – he would never be sure of the reaches of the hands of the heavenly. But there he was, all young and beginning…

"You are alone, then, are you not?"

Ludwig looked back, crystalline eyes meeting dark onyx. "I am."

Reaching out a stiffening arm, upwards, towards the boy and the tree and his loneliness, he made his proposal, and though it was only a question, it was as rhetorical as the mystery of Heaven – in other words, there was no right answer. There was only room for one path, though, and that was what Roderich himself thought was right. For the sake of the land and the people, in the mind of himself, there was only ever one right answer.

"Answer this, then… How does 'Ludwig Edelstein' sound, in your own opinion?"

* * *

_"I've been mad for fucking years, absolutely years…"_

_"I've always been mad; I know I've been mad, like the most of us..."_

_**- 'Speak to Me'**_

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_**end of chapter one**_


	2. II - A Thousand Dances

**Europa's Waltz**

**(Season's Greetings to all, whatever you celebrate!)**

…**Yay! I'm not the only one interested in this! Thanks for the reviews/faves, etc! Any activity/reviews/comments will be answered personally, unless you are an anon. This will help to keep things cleaner up here. Anyway…**

**Interesting fact of the chapter – on Pixiv (Japanese art site) the tag for the group of Austria, Hungary, Italy and HRE translates to **_**'A Peaceful and Pleasant Family.'**_

…_**well, something's gonna go **__**down**_.

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**Warnings for this chapter –**** oh dear…**

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**Chapter Two – A Thousand Dances**

His eye peered through the sliver of light between the door and the wall, the music streaming through the gap and making his heart sing to the rhythm.

Feliciano knew that the ballroom was perfectly out of bounds to him and the others who lived in the house – in Röderich's house – when the dances were on, and he knew even better that he had chores to do, but the temptation was too strong. His mind wouldn't function otherwise. Like a magnet to a thick, rustless nail, there was a phantom attraction between him and those enchanting sounds – he only wanted to listen, besides.

Through the gap, he could make out Röderich, the grand, proud _master _of the house, amongst the bustling crowd – his coat was thick and laced and cut in the latest fashions, and it seemed that every dame in the room was gossiping about the silken feel of his gloves as he held the hand of a partner.

It made him blush, in all honesty – the sight of so many men and women, all clothed so finely and richly, fingers and fields of view touching and spinning and shy smiles and confident strides being shared. How he longed to be alongside them, to be part of their fairy-tale world full of silks and cottons and ribbons, amongst the pouts and hidden smiles, in the midst of the strings and the gently-touched keys! How the sounds called to his heart, how they called him! The awe of it, the awe - eyes wide – the awe!

It was as if the sun was shining, bare and uncensored, just behind those doors, and it was not just the lights – everything, in fact, seemed to be beckoning him, out of the darkness, out of the damp of the cave that was living in the silence as he was once again. Life felt spurred on inside of him to continue; the music and feeling and vibes were the movement in his lungs and the rush in his blood. His mouth opened slightly with awe, and above all, that longing to be there, with people – to live once again!

And there he was, in the dark and alone. "Feli-"

Everything was protesting against it, telling him to continue and not to turn around and find out what Erzsébet _– Eli,_ she was Eli to him, his special friend Eli – was wanting of him. But he had to, and just the knowledge of that reduced his smile to white emptiness. Facing her, turning slowly – he didn't want to let go – he sighed, careful to be quiet so that the girl behind him would not hear.

He didn't want to upset her by making her feel like she bored him or saddened him – of all the things, that was the last thing Eli could ever do. He didn't speak, however.

She, too, had a look on her face that projected desire and the same will to dance, but below that, her clothes were as ornate as that of a pauper.

"We're not allowed. Come on." Sorrow dusted her features, infecting him with the same emotion. It was as if he was being ripped away from his true happiness, his place where he was content to be – and yet, here he was. Back to life, as it was before Francis had come here and brought the storms with him.

Before, things had at least been… more ordinary. He had listened to music being played and he had smiled. Now, it was somehow different. He'd breathed the same air that everyone else breathed; but now, it felt overbreathed. He'd taken a brief step outside, accompanied by the firm, once comforting gaze of Röderich, and the little breeze that had come out to meet him had almost called his name.

His clothes were the same. Looking down, he saw the same white shirt with the same, obedient red bow around his neck that branded him a servant and the same-coloured trousers that he had worn eighteen years ago. They still fit, perfectly so; but that was not his concern. Eighteen years was nothing out of the ordinary. He had not aged.

But why, then? _Why?_

Standing up and quickly dusting his knees and shins to ensure they were clean – or at least, no dirtier than they had been when he had been returned his clothes – his eyes met Erzsébet's grassy orbs.

She was older in body and wiser in spirit; he saw it in her eyes. He was sure that an infinity of secrets had to be buried inside – she had spent some nights, over their hundreds of years in the same old house, telling all of these fantastic but true tales, of freedom and singing blades and the rush of horses' hooves rumbling all around the fields. Her eyes had seemed distant, then, and he had sworn, but not said out loud, that in them, he had truly seen the rush of true battle.

She was a Nation, too.

_Am I one too, then?_

With a sigh, he looked over his shoulder once more, eyes pricking at the corners at the thought of leaving behind the music and the magic that enthralled with its charms behind the grand doorway. It hurt, terribly so; he felt hollow. He heard a sigh emerge from Erzsébet's dry lips and found himself looking right into her eyes again. The same longing, too, was slowly showing up in her.

"Well, maybe, if he doesn't know…" she trailed off, but Feliciano had no time to listen. Already, he was up against the door, eyes peering and ears attached to the solid wood in search of that beautiful melody. He didn't see her smile, and didn't see her shoulders relax as the sounds enchanted her. He knew she loved the music just as much as he did, and now felt like a perfect time. Their master was away with the bustle and the frills of colour; surely, he would not take notice. Besides, the cleaning could wait a handful of beats…

Yes, it could wait. He felt a smile spreading like the unseen sunshine. He had not been outside for months – but this made up for it a thousand times over. Nowhere else were such dances – such miracles – as vivid as in a house of colourful chambers and white-walled downstairs.

_You _like _the downstairs?_

For a gasp of a breath, Feliciano paused, swearing that he had heard a whisper from somewhere. Turning around, he only saw Erzsébet – the Eli who smiled as she enjoyed the music – and slowly, it sank in that the voice had not been a voice at all. It had, really, felt more like a very loud thought, if such things existed.

He had only imagined that, because Eli hadn't said it. But the question stayed there for a moment longer – _did I just think that? Did I really just think that… I don't like the house?_

The house – Röderich, Austria's house – was his home, and had been for a long time. It was Milan's home, and now Venice's home, where its lion was to spread its wings – but somehow, there was still the question. _Is this where I should be?_

_What am I, besides? Am I really… Lombardy-Venetia?_ The name felt unfamiliar, grazing his mouth, but never being said out loud. It didn't feel real.

_So many contradictions…_

He had seen children running in the streets, then changing to teenagers, before flourishing into adults, whose children, in turn, had ended up playing on exactly the same cobbles. He had seen trees shed their leaves and stand there, in the cold of the whitest season, bare and exposed like the women of the plague; and then he'd seen them come alive again with the birdsong and the sun.

He'd lived through it all. He'd lived for so long. He'd stayed young for centuries, just like Eli and Röderich and François had – and yet, nothing else seemed to click with the rhythm of the Nations. He felt nothing other than himself, no greater significance, nothing beyond his body and his own thoughts. His wounds took minutes to stop bleeding and days to heal. He'd never dreamt of war and horror and the sorrows beyond the house.

The only time had been during his years away from here, but… those did not count. He'd been told to forget those days, and with a sigh, he had tried to do so, because those years were insignificant and did not deserve to exist. They were a stain upon the perfect white of his reputation and life with Röderich; wine upon a pearl-embroided tablecloth. Stains had to be washed out, and if they did not do so the first time, they would be washed again.

Scratched and rubbed, until there was no more stain left. That was the rule for tablecloths, and in that same way, the rule for memories as well - forget they ever existed. Stains did not deserve to be remembered; all they did was tarnish otherwise perfect beauty.

Röderich and the others had that beauty. He and Eli didn't. There was that inexplicable difference between them, and he didn't quite know or understand why it was there; why they were different, why he was dazed in this dream and behind the door, they were all –

His thoughts got no further as the fibres of his fantasy were torn apart, cleanly and quickly, as the doors suddenly swung open with a violent motion and a fearsome sound. A swift, fortunate slide back had, however, saved him from a strike in the face or the legs, but the light now shone down, singling him out like the eyes of a predator looking down at the frailty of its prey.

Gasping, he looked up, as Eli, too, gasped behind him, eyes growing wide as saucers. He was still in an awkward crouch on the floor, and although she was stood up, her position gave her no more power than the weakest of mice against a swooping owl.

"Well, if I may ask… what is going on in here?" Above them, eyes sharp as gemstones penetrated to the core. Röderich loomed over them, a hint of sarcasm peppering his words and obvious discontent brushed across his otherwise flawlessly groomed complexion.

Eli didn't say a word, and neither did he. The door was held open, and Feliciano wondered if anyone else could see them, immediately remembering that they'd been sent to work. The order not to be seen played over and over again in his head, refusing to stop, and he felt his face flush with sudden guilt – guilt that could not be concealed, but did nothing to change the expression of the Master.

"I believe I did say that there was work to be done? Or… has all of the upstairs been finished within an hour?" His arm swept to his side in brisk order. "Has a miracle occurred?"

He could see the _stop-it-stop-mocking_ look badly concealed by Eli's fear in her eyes, but even that faded and was overtaken when she began to stammer out, "N-no, but we were only -"

Was she really… frightened? His Eli? _Scared?_

"Only what_, Eliza?"_ Röderich's tongue clicked as he looked away in what felt like disgust. She didn't reply. With a sigh, it seemed that the battle was pointless, and he immediately terminated the argument. "…It is fine. Go on your way."

Her eyes widened, and Feliciano felt his heart skip a beat in relief as he sighed too, but this time, with thankfulness. Curiosity nibbled at his mind, however – there had to be something more. He was never this calm, and never one to drop the conversation so easily and quickly, but who was he to object? He was a servant to the Master, who could stop and start the world as he pleased –

"…Feliciano? A moment." There wasn't a 'please' of politeness, nor a drop of the sarcastic essence of earlier words. There was, however, something grim and pressuring in the voice; something that blocked out the music and the cautious footsteps of Eli, unwillingly leaving him behind but being urged – perhaps, almost pushed by some mysterious force – away from the corridor, the shadows, and the hall where the waltzing continued, unknowing of the trembling servant behind the doors looking up into the eyes of the man whom he was bound to serve.

Once the panicky steps had at least faded, night-painted eyes turned slowly – dangerously – to meet the liquid honey orbs of Feliciano. He, in turn, swallowed a lump of something that had formed in his throat, before lifting himself up, still shaken from the bang of polished wood that refused to leave his memory.

Silken gloves cupped his chin, gracefully and gently, but all that Feliciano felt through them was stone and ice. Standing made no difference; Röderich still seemed to tower over him, although the difference was actually slowly shrinking by the days – but Feliciano himself would not notice it for a long time.

"…It's a shame, really, Feliciano." Every syllable was impeccably pronounced, like bullets piercing through their target, clean and swift. "A shame that you have… made a mistake. Did you forget, perhaps?" It was, in fact, obvious that Feliciano had not forgotten; the mocking sounds were creeping back. A shiver ran down his spine, making him flinch.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't m-mean to…" He didn't know what to say, if anything at all. His heart throbbed, making his fingers shake behind his back. There was a constricting dryness in his throat, aching and not going away no matter how much his mind begged to be able to speak out. "I d-didn't…"

The older, taller man shook his head. "It is not important, Feliciano. All that is important is that a mistake has been made." One hand let go of him, but the shivers didn't stop. Röderich moved his head sideways, as if scrutinising something tarnished. "And, Feliciano… do you know what must happen to mistakes?"

Feliciano's breaths grew quicker, the pounding in his chest growing faster as something like shame scorched his insides. He had already spent years in this house, under this man's firm thumb – and what was different now? "I-I don't know, _Signore -"_

Immediately, he gasped, but had no time to apologise for the word that had, without a warning, flown from his lips. Too quickly to think, let alone react to the sudden swing of a hand; his left cheek suddenly surged with a pain, stinging with the feel of Röderich's palm striking upon it – a pricking feeling began in the corners of his eyes.

Removing his hand as quickly as it had been swung back, Röderich's arm moved back to his hip, showing no recoil from the slap. The skin was burning, but his darker eyes paid no notice.

"Repeat after me, Feliciano. _Herr Österreich."_

The pain had to be pushed aside, though the struggle against it was useless. "_H-Herr_ _Österreich_." It singed and it stirred him inside; the sounds unwanted and stale on his tongue, unfitting and bitter.

"That is good," was the response. "Places must be understood, Feliciano." Röderich turned around, his shoulder back and his chest out as before, that same, commanding shine in his eyes and his glasses. The music began to flow again from the gap between the open doors, but it was no medicine. "You are nothing in this world. _Understand that."_

For a moment as quick as a thunder-strike, his eyes flashed back. "And I hope there will be no more _mistakes._" With that, the door was shut with the same, loud bang as it had been opened with.

Immediately, Feliciano's ears picked up the thumping of Eli running downstairs, back to him again, but even as she called out to him – "Feli, what happened?" – he did not hear, and he was not listening any more either. He didn't feel her eyes look into his, nor did he feel her arms around him – nor was he reminded that this girl was a sister to him and his friend who lived in the same downstairs with the same rats and the same drips in the night.

His cheek was bright red, but no colours could be seen in the dark.

* * *

Lili had never been a loud, nor an open sort of girl, so it was no surprise that the first thing Röderich saw when he returned from his deeds was the figure of a lone, wide-eyed girl at the back of the room, fumbling with her dress and sporting a silent, lonesome look that did not, if fact, make her invisible, but instead, made her stand out in his field of view.

Her long, seemingly infinite golden locks were braided elegantly into loops and adorned with flowers, red to match her deep burgundy dress, but she seemed to be more of a wallflower than any bloom known to man. Her cheeks looked flushed with what Röderich thought was shyness – an irony, as they were the one things he hoped would not match her dress that night.

There were gentlemen here – many fine, beautiful men from a nearby town whom he had invited to add some spirit to an otherwise practically-empty celebration; a stark contrast, he knew, to the full-bodied waltzes in the palace of Vienna, where he, too, had been, silently assisting in decisions and reworkings of the map of Europe after the wars that had raged through the years and left his beautiful house trampled through and perhaps, he felt, disrespected.

That respect was going to come back – and he would make sure of it. Personally, and as the Nation he was. Röderich would order those who served him and Austria would fight for the sake of the Empire. That was his two sides, but for now, they could both be at rest for a little while and dance the night away in the company of simple, unknowing people and a few others of his own kind.

Lili was of the second category; a small principality named Liechtenstein – though why she stood out more than others was a question left unanswered. There were others, other states and lands and kingdoms, but only Lili had chosen to stay at the house of Röderich, and no matter what Liechtenstein did and what condition her land was in, her human side seemed to gravitate to this house and virtually nowhere else. She simply liked life here.

Human sides had their desires, and so did the Nation within – but Lili was a clever girl, he knew – she respected and acknowledged the creature that had been born with her and kept her alive through the centuries as a subconscious vibe, and Lichtenstein was quiet too, and fine with that. Besides that, he even enjoyed the younger girl's company. She reminded him of a niece sometimes, though not a daughter.

Röderich did not detest children – though Lili looked to be around nine years of age – although he did despise the idea of _his _children.

Weaving with expertise amongst the dancers, the gentlemen and dames, he swooped to the other side of the room, letting his hand meet the wall through the thin fabric of his glove – which he perhaps cherished a little less after it had made contact with the cheek of his servant.

Lili did not look up. The same loneliness ghosted her eyes.

"Lili? Are you all right?" Röderich asked politely, beckoning her to look upwards to face him. Slowly, the girl responded, but without words; raising her head, her large blue-green eyes blinked innocently right at his own hawk-black ones. After what felt like a minute of empty, purposeless looks, she did speak, however – her voice being barely above a whisper.

"I am fine,_ Herr_ Röderich." Lili, unlike the servants, was freely permitted to address Röderich by any name she wished, and for most of the time, it was the simple and polite 'Herr Röderich' – for she, like he of her, thought of him as family, but was too shy to really say the name without a title.

"Why are you so alone and on your lonesome, then?" His tone was not firm, but it was not completely warm nor fully comforting. "Surely you want to dance, Lili?"

Lili shook her head, plaits glistening against the light of the chandeliers. "No."

"And… why is that?" He placed a hand upon her shoulder, trying to stop the hint of fear and uncertainty she felt from spreading.

"I… I don't want to dance, _Herr _Edelstein_." _Such a darling, she was, even as she said that – were it not for the ages he had behind him and his sense and sensibility, he would surely have fallen for the small-creature-eyes.

"And… why not, Lili? There are many people here; you may choose anyone you like. I am sure that they would not say no." A Nation could charm like any other woman or man; with a look and a smile, and with no less skill than a human. Humans knew nothing of them.

The girl didn't answer this time, but the answer gently pieced itself together in the older man's head.

Röderich shook his head, a small smile forming. He knew his little Lili. She was a bashful girl, the kind that would not come out even if tempted with cakes and sweet tea, but the years had left him more knowledgeable of how to deal with such ladies.

"Well, then… what about Ludwig? I am sure he would like a friend to enjoy his time in the house with?"

_Let her have her childhood._

To Lili, the boy was a stranger, and she had really seen little of him – he had come here one day, blue eyes as wide as the sky, looking around every corner of the house in absolute awe of the things he could see. They had made next to no contact – and though Liechtenstein did feel a certain sort of inexplicable attraction to the golden-haired boy, Lili could only really feel uncertain and intrigued. Who was he? Where was he from?

_Of which land is he?_

She had not seen him in the ballroom. Was he not invited? Not allowed, like… _like a servant?_

Lili didn't know what to do or say. She wanted to leave this room, to leave the overwhelming sounds behind and go to her own room and let the pillows take her head – but she couldn't, could she? There was this boy, besides – the boy named Ludwig who she could finally speak to; the boy with the strange Nation-vibe and the sickeningly-similar eyes to another boy she'd once known –

"…Yes, _Herr _Edelstein." Wriggling free of his hand and striding away with a briskness unseen in the moments of silence before, she sighed in resignation. With a quick swing of the doors leading to the bed-chambers, Lili was gone out of the room, and though the music was still audible, she pretended it wasn't there. Only her swift little footsteps echoed through the darkness of the corridors, in search of a single light that would have to be Ludwig's room.

At least she was away from the shame of her solitude amongst the dancers, and away from the ringing calls of strings, and away from the too-bright lights.

Most importantly, she was further and further away, as she escaped through the corridors, from the sharp, digging edges of Röderich's gentle-but-cutting eyes.

* * *

It was, in fact, true. Lili didn't know her fellow, new resident of the house – and he didn't know her well either.

Ludwig remembered the beginning of his new life, though much of it was turbulence, and not due to bad memory, but rather due to the events themselves being hectic and wild in the mind of his human self.

He hated being small. He hated only being as tall as the middle of Röderich's chest. He hated the rough feel of that man's hands on his wrist as they guided him to his so-called 'rightful place'. He hated this dark room in the evening, with its single candle and its unreliable balcony – he'd closed it, and yet, the cold wind was still blowing freely through it, making the place colder and colder by the second.

If anything, Ludwig found his solace in the mornings, or at sunset, when the sun seemed to be ablaze as it sank below the horizon. The sun, the light, was his comfort; the reason he felt nothing threatening or frightening around him. It soothed him by letting him see; and he loved the light because it gave him that gift. _Sight._

He hated sitting here with nothing to do. He hated the dark because there was nothing to see. He hated being alone.

A small moan of discomfort escaped him – though Röderich had given him enough choice of clothing to clothe a town's worth of people (deep down, he knew this wasn't true, thanks to something subconscious alerting him that towns were larger than a child of his physical age could imagine) but nothing seemed to _fit. _Size wasn't a problem, however – the fabric either itched or tugged where it shouldn't or felt too much like a beast sitting on his back. The shirt and waistcoat he had on right now belonged to the itchy variety.

Grimacing to scratch his side where the seams met, he thought about the others in the house. He'd seen Röderich before that evening, dressed in fine attire and some secretely envied gloves, medals glistening over his heart and a look on his face that radiated pride. A little too much pride, in Ludwig's opinion – pride that shouldn't actually have been there – but he couldn't have said it.

Was that more comfortable than this?

Vaguely, a few loose sounds had drifted to his window and the balcony, alerting him of a bright-lighted dance that evening; and though the music was rather well-played, Ludwig instead wished he was allowed to go to the event for a different reason.

The light. He wanted light. Not shut in the dark.

There were others of his age there... what about that girl he'd glimpsed once, with the long, light golden plaits? From her clothes, he had been able to tell that she wasn't a servant – so was she there, too? Was she there, dancing like a dame?

He'd seen others too – but unlike himself and the girl, the hair of the two was darker, though not as deep as Röderich's well-combed locks. Servants, he knew. The first thing he had been taught to recognise by the master of the house. Servant from one above.

He'd also been taught to treat them however he pleased, 'as long as they know their place'. Whatever that had meant surely signified they were not as good as Röderich and Lili and he? (Was he really included, considering he was here in his room and not in the hall, dancing away? Ludwig still did not understand.)

Know their place. Know your place. What did it mean? What made _them_ different? What made_ him_ different? Why wasn't he allowed to be with the rest? Why was he cooped up like a cagebird while his keepers sang with the chorus?

Nothing made sense in the mind of one Ludwig Edelstein.

He sighed, for the umpteenth time that lonesome night, standing up to find out what was wrong with the window – and suddenly, found he could not move. A creak – loud and sudden – had come out of somewhere. Paralysis wearing off, Ludwig shook his head to and fro, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound, finding nothing but increasing the frenzy.

Tap-tap-tap. Like a knock, but not quite.

There was nobody there. No-one outside – the curtains were wide open. Ludwig gasped, looking at the little candle-light for reassurance. It suddenly flickered, up and out for a wild, quick moment, prompting the boy to speak out – "Who's there?"

There was no answer – but there was the odd, cold wind again. This time, though, something was off – rather than the stream of coolness he usually felt, the sensation was more like a small, winding serpent, curving from his bare neck to his shoulder, beneath anything he was wearing. His heart was racing in the dark, as he fell to his knees in a bolt-like flash of weakness beyond his control.

"Who's there? Who is it? What's going on?" Eyes wide and mad and desperate, limbs frail and refusing to do anything but shiver; the invisible wind-snake on his skin slithered and hissed into his flesh, his voice becoming nothing but a breath and a whisper –

"Hush."

This wasn't Röderich. Nor was it any voice he knew. "Hush," it repeated, and with that second spoken word, the room became devoid of any sound at all. The candle could not have looked more ordinary in that moment and after it.

Ludwig felt his spine relax and the feeling of the serpent fade, slowly as a melting icicle but getting warmer nonetheless and leaving. Slowly, he stood up, but did not look around, too scared for what might be lurking elsewhere. Silence crowned the night, as did nothingness.

"Who are you?" Ludwig repeated, in pursuit of an answer, blue eyes still huge with panic; he had to find this out. Who was this voice that commanded his fear? What was this strangeness he felt stirring inside?

"Behind you." Knees shaking, he turned around – and immediately wished he had not.

What he saw was rather unbelievable. In the centre of the room stood a child; a little smaller than himself, but Ludwig dared not come closer to check. The candle could only provide a little light, but from what it did give, the child was clothed entirely in black; a cloak and the hat of a scholar from some years that Ludwig did not remember.

Pale skin. Blonde hair. Bright, blue eyes.

The eyes frightened Ludwig. No eyes could be so bright by candlelight, let alone by day. But what made his stomach churn even more than the eyes was the strange child's resemblance to himself – something that sent another shiver up his spine, even worse than the one he had experienced during the panic before.

"W-who are you?" He knew he had to be brave; Röderich did not like cowards at all, and he had promised to be brave, but he could not, not with this dark and this boy and those eyes…

The boy with the glowing blue eyes blinked once, startling Ludwig as the blue moons disappeared from sight for a second and flickered again. "…My name is Heinrich."

"H-Heinrich?" The voice of the child had shaken him again – it was, of course, a younger-looking child speaking, but the feeling of knowledge and superiority made it boom through his ears and encircle his mind before taking his full attention. This time, a nod came in response from the boy; far worse than the blink.

"Yes. And you… are my successor."

* * *

_"Long you live and high you fly,  
__And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry,  
__And all you touch and all you see  
__Is all your life will ever be..."_

_**- 'Breathe (In The Air)'**_

* * *

_**end of chapter two - review?**_


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